


Matches and Light

by NervousAsexual



Category: 40s Noir Lights Another Man's Cigarette (Tumblr)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:54:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27541912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NervousAsexual/pseuds/NervousAsexual
Summary: '40s noir voice: so have you ever, uh y'know - lit another man's cigarette?
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	Matches and Light

**Author's Note:**

> [based on this post here](https://theghostisametaphor.tumblr.com/post/190163046593/40s-movie-voice-so-have-you-ever-uh-yknow)
> 
> I am a simple creature with simple tastes so both characters are named after Bogart characters. Unfortunately I am also aroace so I have only the vaguest idea what attraction is supposed to be.

The office is dark. The only light comes from the lightning outside, and the only sound is the patter of rain on the window and the occasional roll of thunder. There is no movement at all.

No, that's not quite right. Seated in the desk chair, feet propped up on the windowsill, Sam is breathing. Except for the rise and fall of his chest he's barely moved in two hours.

Behind him there is a knock at the door. Two sharp raps and then silence. Sam's eyes open a bit and he stirs, fingers pressing briefly to his side, before slipping back into a doze.

The doorknob rattles softly before it turns and the door eases open. A flash of lightning reveals a tall, slender man in the doorway. His hat and jacket are damp with rain, which doesn't change the clear care with which they were chosen. Then the light is gone and the man is closing the door behind him. He crosses the room in three quick strides and pauses beside the desk. He watches the slow rise and fall of Sam's chest. Another flash of lightning shows the paleness of his face and hands, his rumpled white shirt and ill-pressed trousers, and the darkened eyes. Those eyes open again and look up at the man beside him.

"Come to gloat, Marlowe?" He speaks without moving.

"Come to make sure you weren't bleeding out on the floor."

Sam jerks his head in a small gesture toward the fold-out cot in the corner. "Pull up a seat if you want."

Marlowe drags the cot over and sits beside him. Both look out at the dark rainy night. Neither speak.

Marlowe listens to the rain, and the storm, and the breathing of the man next to him. He feels in his pocket for the cigarette case and puts one to his mouth before offering the rest to Sam. Sam glances them over and finally takes a slightly dented one from the end of the case. Neither acknowledge the trembling of his hand.

Marlowe strikes a match on the side of the desk and lights up. He takes a drag off the cigarette that goes on for days.

"You ever, uh... lit another man's cigarette before?" Sam asks when Marlowe offers him the match.

Marlowe tenses up. He knows they aren't talking about the match.

If he's looking for an answer Sam doesn't show it. He holds the cigarette out, and Marlowe has to take the shaking hand in his to keep from burning him. Another flash of lightning reveals a scattering of ash as it falls from his cigarette to Sam's lap. Sam nods his thanks and brings the cigarette to his lips. The red glow of it flares, until Sam has to hold it away and cough hard into his sleeve. His breath hisses gently between his teeth, and his fingers press hard into his side. Marlowe says nothing. Eventually the coughing stops and Sam sinks back in his chair.

"Morphine starting to wear off?" Marlowe is not expecting an answer, nor does he not get one. Instead Sam waves the cigarette at him irritably, just two quick jerks of his hand, and takes another pull at it. He tips his head back against the chair and closes his eyes. The hand holding the cigarette rests against his chest, and the glow of the cigarette rises and falls as he breathes.

Marlowe turns back to the windows. The rain outside is still falling, but the lightning has moved on into the distance, and the thunder is like a distant freight train. The only sounds are the endless rain and Sam's breathing. Despite the springs of the cot and the edge of the desk digging into him Marlowe is almost relaxed. His head tips back and he watches the cigarette smoke rise above him and disperse.

Beside him Sam gives a small huff that might be a sigh. When Marlowe rolls his head to one side to look at him his eyes are still closed and the hand that holds the cigarette is relaxed. The cigarette itself hangs loosely between his fingers. Marlowe takes it from him and puts it out. There will be time to finish later.

As he sits back Marlowe looks at Sam's face, framed in darkness and turned slightly toward him. Without conscious thought Marlowe leans toward him. He can smell the smoke on his breath and he reaches out a hand for a reason he can't articulate even to himself. His fingers just brush against Sam's cheek. He wants an answer to a question left unasked.

But no. He settles back against the desk. There will be time later. For now it is enough to know his own answer.

He hasn’t before but he’d do it again.


End file.
